Field Party

The sweet trace of fodder
on the breeze, the acid
of spilled cider. Occasional cars
tearing up the air, like the invites
none of us had received.
I don’t even remember a house.
What signal set us heading out
to ooze like summer starlings
feeding on insects in the sky?
Perhaps some cipher in the blood
pumping a miasmic code
of hormones, a double helix
of nascent lust and the promise
of a few hours of freedom. Now,
well past the days when I look
for any such social communion,
I think of that night not to mourn
lost youth, past days, or recapture
the toothy kisses on a dark verge
or the grimly porny excesses
of a girl, drunk out of her mind,
offering an act far beyond
anything I could allow myself.
I think of my father dropping me off
at this obscure point in the night,
and driving back to town alone
clocking the passing miles
and the earth’s inevitable curve.

Daniel Bennett was born in Shropshire and lives and works in London. His poems have been published in numerous places, including The Manchester Review and The Stinging Fly. His first collection West South North, North South East is out this summer from The High Window. You can read more of his work online at: https://absenceclub.com